


Unspoken

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-01
Updated: 2003-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My entry in Sandys' Small Change: A JC Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

_and what becomes of all the little boys, who never comb their hair  
\-- tom waits, on the nickel_

JC doesn't know when it started, but he knows there was a time before. He thinks it must have been in Germany, because that's when everything else started, and because he was scared and anxious and a little bit broken before that, pieces of himself still scattered across the states, lost and lonely in LA. He remembers fear and frustration pouring out of him like so much sweat, keeping him focused in Florida, keeping him distant even when he wanted to be close. The guys always respected his boundaries, didn't press or push, and JC was grateful then, still is, really, because even now, those are days he doesn't quite like to remember.

He remembers Germany, though, falling asleep in icy beds, cold sheets and scratchy blankets and Lance's voice like a bedtime story, remembers waking up in the dark, the sharp sting of regret in his belly and Lance's fingers in his close-cropped hair. One morning he rolled out of bed and those old boundaries weren't there anymore, and they were always touching, all of them, snuggling close and demanding to be petted, and it was just normal to feel someone else's hands warming his skin, to wake up wrapped in strong arms, random touches during the day, quick and comforting. And maybe JC doesn't know when it started, but he knows it changed over the years, when Justin grew up, or when Bri was born, or, well, he isn't sure. They were always together though, twisted around each other, and even if it was different, somehow, it hadn't mattered. They were still there for each other, near enough to touch.

JC misses it now, misses it more than he ever thought he would. He didn't realize, but he hasn't been alone since long before Germany, not for more than a few days, a week at most, not until recently, and he doesn't like the way it echoes. He can still feel Lance's fingers on his shoulder, warm lips on his cheek, murmuring soft words in Russian, excited words that feel exactly like goodbye. He feels all of their goodbyes like torn pages now, thready and unfinished, and he wants to move on but he can't seem to remember how.

More than anything, he wants this hiatus to end. He didn't want it to begin with, didn't want it to be open-ended like this, didn't even want to record his own album, but he did and it is, and even Jive seems determined to keep to the status quo. But the status quo makes JC itch lately, makes him feel sore and achy, like maybe he shouldn't speak anymore, like he should just nod a lot and smile pretty, like he was still that hollow little boy, all drive and discipline and blinding bundled need. He thinks about that for a while, sees his life in shades of gray, bursts of color here and there, deep blue streaks and crimson edges, and he figures he doesn't have all that much to say, anyway.

 **.   .  .**

The suits start dicking around with the time table for his solo release and JC shrugs it off, just keeps working and tweaking and making plans, but the truth is, he doesn't care. Recording keeps him focused, gives all that tight energy someplace to go. He's looking forward to time with Tony, looking forward to the fullness of his voice, the twang of his guitar, writing and writing and a small tour, and yeah, yes, Tony is intense, a complicated cat, high-pressure under all that laid back cool, but JC thinks that's probably good for him, too, thinks he probably needs that now, because with the release date in constant motion, JC feels sort of mired here, stunned into stillness, less certain than he's been in years.

Not always, but sometimes, lately, when JC sees his reflection, in storefront glass and rearview mirrors and random shiny surfaces, he has no idea who he's looking at. He thinks there's something wrong there, something he can't quite figure out because he's mostly just himself now, loose curls and his own clothes and he should know what he looks like, shouldn't he? He thinks he should know who he is, too, but he doesn't always, not really, and the truth is he's not sure he ever did. JC knows Justin means it when he says honesty's always the best policy, but JC thinks there are things worth lying about, memories and moments and it's his own damn life, even if it doesn't really feel like it at all.

 **.   .  .**

It's been a while now, a few days maybe, a couple weeks, and JC's still a little off kilter from seeing the guys at Challenge, from the sunburn and the closeness and how much it all just fucking _hurt_. He knew it would, of course he did, knew he missed them, knew it would be hard to see them all and harder again to leave, but the raw ache of it is worse than he remembers. Worse than the VMAs, even, Justin's first solo performance and Lance in Russia and JC curled into his own head, waiting. He didn't realize he'd been waiting all this time, not until Lance's cool breath ghosted over his fiery skin, as soothing as his voice, tingly, like an echo of something he almost hears. But Lance's heart beats pale green all around him, soft and steady and JC feels the rumble in his bones, feels like he's been waiting forever, knows he'll wait forever still.

 **.   .  .**

People say that inside, JC is music, but JC knows it isn't true. Inside he's the same as everyone, he breathes air and bleeds bright and maybe he sings in his sleep and dreams in harmony, but that doesn't mean he's like, different, or something. Like, if he doesn't shower for a couple days, you can't _hear_ him coming, right? He thinks about it sometimes, melodies leaking from his pores if he's not careful, notes and lyrics like sweat, hot and salty, and JC wonders if they'd turn stale if he ever stopped listening, rank and sour, unheard.

 **.   .  .**

Carlos says JC needs to get the fuck out of his own head for half a minute, says he's been to too many art galleries and wine tastings and sure, Carlos knows JC likes all that, aesthetically, but he also knows it's a distance thing, and at arms length isn't a good place for JC to be. Carlos is real and grounded and JC thinks maybe Carlos is right. So when Carlos drags him to some honky-tonk beach bar, smiling the whole time, JC lets himself be introduced to a dozen people he doesn't bother to remember, lets Carlos press cool Corona's into his hand. It doesn't take long for JC to feel the vibe, fresh and steady, sand on the floor and salt in the air, and when the band wanders in JC just smiles, young guys in jeans and t-shirts, blonde and shaggy, laughing, and holy fuck, is that Nick Carter?

JC hasn't seen Nick in ages, wasn't expecting to see him tonight, sweaty and wide-open, looking like his life depends on it, like he's never been happier, like it's a little bit of everything and JC knows how that is, remembers how it feels to be on stage. Nick's beautiful like this, alive, not quite prowling but close, close enough that JC has to look away when Nick smiles, because he's sure he's smiling back but he isn't sure if Nick can see him. He knows what it's like up there, how the lights obscure the view, how the energy pulses, bright and hot, obscuring everything else. JC tilts his head back, exposing his throat, Nick's voice sliding over his skin in slick streams and JC would close his eyes but he wants to see this, all of this, unfiltered, just the way it is.

Nick is big like Joey and tall like Justin and goofy like Chris and warm like Lance, and every once in a while Nick leans away from the mic but doesn't stop singing. JC can still hear him, but only just, unamplified and drifty like he's singing just for himself. Nick throws his arm around his bassist and smiles, and it isn't scripted, it isn't choreographed, the lights don't flash and the girls don't scream and JC knows some of these songs are Nick's and some of them aren't, but he thinks this is who Nick is, for real, and he's pretty damn impressed.

 **.   .  .**

Nick's boat is fast and sleek, powerful, and JC loves the way Nick tucks Aaron against chest and lets his brother steer, both them windblown and laughing and Aaron's probably too old for this, or not old enough, but neither of them seems too concerned with probablies. JC remembers Nick saying in an interview that there's no one way to be, no one way to make music; he remembers another interview, Nick talking about how talented Aaron is, how fearless, how much it means to him to be involved in Aaron's life the way he is. Nick's never tried to hide how much he cares, never tried not to touch, never held back kisses, never pretended not to love his little brother. JC's memories swirl, paints them aquamarine, Nick and Aaron, sleek and fast, powerful.

They're gorgeous together, blond and gold and so much alike, the promise of Aaron's body inked over the broad planes of Nick's skin, his eyes brown and liquid and just like Nick's, except Nick's eyes are warm blue and jaded, both of them as open as the sea. A tangle of arms and legs and muscles as they play, long and lean and always laughing, draped all over each other, and JC hopes Aaron knows how special he is, how lucky, because he really, really is.

JC sorta wishes Nick was his big brother, too, which he maybe says out loud because Nick throws his head back and laughs. Aaron just grins, runs his fingers over Nick's biceps, tracing the tattoos. Later, when they're all stretched out on the deck, sun-drenched and salty, Aaron reaches those fingers toward JC, tugs on his arm until JC is right there, wrapped between them, drowsing. Nick holds him close, one hand buried in JC's hair and his leg curved over JC's body, heavy and soft, certain. Aaron's breath is hot and sweet, his smooth cheek damp on JC's shoulder, tongue flicking out, tasting even in his sleep. JC feels how they reach for each other, fingers twining over his hip, instinct and need, and if JC dreams through this press of bodies he doesn't dream in color, doesn't see the sunset or feel the rhythm of the waves, he only hears Nick's voice, singing, a whisper in his ear, confessions and secrets and it's just so right that JC knows it's true, knows he dreaming and still he knows it's true.

 **.   .  .**

Nick says the way he feels about Aaron isn't anyone's business, but he isn't ashamed of it, either. Nick isn't ashamed of anything, not his mistakes, not his music, not his parents; he isn't ashamed of the Boys' lawsuit, or the things Lou used to say about him and Howie, or the way Aaron's eyes light up every time he smiles. Nick doesn't lie anymore, but he isn't careless with the truth, he understands the way the winds shift and the currents change, he knows how the moon effects the tides. Nick says the truth is precious, and JC knows he's been given a gift.

 **.   .  .**

JC likes to touch, likes the way Nick and Aaron touch, likes the way he feels all wrapped up in warm boy and soft man and JC wants his world back, the five of them together, closeness and color and Lance's voice like a lullaby, waking him up and soothing him back to sleep.

He starts making appearances again, doing radio interviews, listening to his managers when they call. He says yes to the birthday thing in Vegas because it's good exposure, because he'd be a fool to say no to the Maloof brothers, because he's pretty sure Lance is going to be there. Because, finally, JC thinks he might have something to say.

 **.   .  .**

  
JC stalks across the stage, the drumline and the bassbeat and his own voice, strong and sure and Lance in the balcony, radiant, unblinded by the lights. He can still taste Lance on his lips, feel the slide of his Adam's apple, swallowing all the words they've ever said instead of love. JC knows he'll remember this night always, everything about it, the warm hues and the thick scents and Lance's body, warm and slick and sliding against his, shifting under his tongue, opening, and JC's never felt more alive than he does right now.

Later, with the party still swirling all around them, Lance slings his arm around JC's shoulders and runs his fingers through JC's long curls, tugging carefully, just a little. Lance's eyes are dark, bright, and there are cameras everywhere but JC lets his head drop back, a soft sigh fluttering in his throat. Lance twists his hand in JC's hair until he moans, presses against Lance's hip, hard and wanting. Lance smiles, whispering in JC's ear, touching his arm, fingers dancing over his wrist, and JC's already thinking of new words, words he doesn't have to explain or define, phrases he'll paint in colored oils all across Lance's skin, honeyed sounds and sweet sayings and memories he's not afraid to share.

  


\-- END --

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Lillian Hellman's recollection, "It was an unspoken pleasure, that having come together so many years, ruined so much and repaired a little, we had endured."


End file.
